


Linen

by calime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-28
Updated: 2006-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's so hard to get blood out of the laundry... and memory. Same goes for scents. An imprint left by one of those 68 wives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Linen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/picfor1000/profile)[**picfor1000**](http://community.livejournal.com/picfor1000/) fourth challenge.  
>  My picture is [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v233/picfor1000/challenge%204/summer/04.jpg)  
> Disclaimer: Anyone you recognize, I don't own.  
> My deepest gratitude goes to [](http://sparklebutch.livejournal.com/profile)[**sparklebutch**](http://sparklebutch.livejournal.com/), [](http://marys-scribbles.livejournal.com/profile)[**marys_scribbles**](http://marys-scribbles.livejournal.com/) and [](http://dresta11.livejournal.com/profile)[**dresta11**](http://dresta11.livejournal.com/), for patience, help and sharp sticks. Everything that's still wrong is my fault.  
> 

She had been fine-boned and slim, with dark hair always trying to escape the proper braids, just like the blood under her translucent skin had tried to escape, sometimes succeeding, leaving red spots on the kerchief pressed to her lips.

The first time he had gotten to talk to her without the whole gaggle of elderly female relatives watching like vultures she had been stitching the borders of the fine linen sheets. He had stood behind her and traced the smooth line of her nape under the heavy coil of hair with his fingers. Distracted, she had pricked her hand with the needle, then chided him for getting blood on the embroidery. _So hard to get blood out of the linen._ He had kissed her hand, licked the blood away. The embroidery had slid to the floor, forgotten; then her aunt had returned, a-bustle with the wedding preparations.

She had been frail, but never shy. The sombre group of respectable, elder guests and relatives had stood around the wedding bed, examining the evidence of her properly lost virginity laid out before them. The definitely-not-blushing bride had scrunched her nose and looked disapproving beneath her new white matronly coif.  
" _They_ don't have to wash them!" she had whispered fiercely in answer to his amused glance.

She had been withdrawn in their bed at first, though that did not apply to her tongue - the opinions voiced with the same quiet practicality as elsewhere.  
"Do we really have to do it again? It's messy... and, well, it's uncomfortable." So he had set out to prove her wrong. The breathy giggles had soon subsided into moans, then she had arched up, wailing, and collapsed in a boneless, panting heap with a faintly surprised expression on her face. The surprise had given way to the usual determination soon enough.  
"I had no idea... let's do it all over again!" But when he had reached for her, she had suddenly twisted away and clambered out of bed.  
"What are you doing?" he had asked, puzzled, when she had dived into the clothes-chest at the foot of the bed. She had looked up, long hair framing the pale face in the darkness, drawn something out of the chest.  
"Get off the bed," she had said.  
"What? Why?"  
Instead of answering she had nudged him off, spread the fine embroidered sheets he had recognized from their wedding night over the bed.  
"Let's do it again," she had insisted breathlessly, "That's what I made those sheets for, not blood."

He remembered her in the steam of the wash-house, busily ordering the maids around. Hanging the linens out to bleach, folding them into huge clothes-chests, inserting lavender sprigs in their folds. Face as white as the linen, suddenly doubling over with a fit of coughing, leaning against the wall, panting. He had stepped up, put his arms around her. She had leaned back into his solid warmth.  
"I hate lavender," she had said, "It smells of death." So he had bought her perfumes of sandalwood and cedar, vetiver and citron instead. But the death had lurked in the corners of the house and smelt of blood and lavender, and the strongest solution of boiling ashes and quicklime could not get it out of the laundry.

He had had no intention of telling her of his immortality, even after she had seen him stagger home one evening with clothes slashed and bloody , but not a scratch on him. She had gasped, and clutched at him, but never asked any questions. Just quietly scrubbed out the bloodstains and mended the rents. He had pretended not to notice the additional rosary she had said every night.

One day he had come home to an uproar of chaos to find her weeping quietly in their bedroom. Amidst the sobs he had heard the reason for the trouble - the kitchen maid sacked after naming the master of the house as the reason behind her growing belly. But the root of her distress had been deeper.  
"It's been so long. It's the sickness inside me, drawing all the blood out of my womb, making me barren. You should put me aside, find a wife to give you sons." She had started weeping again, drawing deep, shuddery breaths. He had never seen her cry before during the five years of their marriage. He had felt empty, powerless in the face of her pain and the words had just slipped out.  
"It's not you. It's me." She had listened quietly, without any outward show of surprise or disbelief, or fear, for that matter. When he had finished, she had asked very quietly, "If there will be no children for us - will you remember me?" He had held her tightly then, choking on the silent promise.

He remembered. Remembered the feel of her when he had held her through spasms and shivers, the bitter smell of cold sweat and the blood on sheets while the cough had hacked away her life, hour by hour, day by day.  
"I'm cold," she had complained.  
"Hold me." He had, but she had never gotten warmer.

Her mother and sisters had protested loudly when he had thrown out the fine woollen shroud with its overpowering lavender smell.  
"She hated lavender," his explanation had made no sense to them. No doubt they had thought him mad with grief, but they had not stopped him. He had buried her, wrapped in the embroidered wedding linen, scented with citrus and cedar, vetiver and sandalwood. The linen had been a bit worn in places, but he had known that she would not mind.

He had moved on after the burial, selling his property and leaving both the town and his current identity behind. The memories he had carried with him, buried deep among countless others, to be drawn out unexpectedly by a sight, a smell, a fleeting feeling, like shadows are drawn to dance by a flicker of a candle. The smell of lavender he dislikes to this day.


End file.
